


Barricades

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex-Hunter Stiles, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Stalking, initial dehumanizing language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: When Scott's attacked by rogue hunters, he lands on ex-hunter Stiles' stoop, trusting that Stiles will help him, even though they don't know each other.





	Barricades

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous prompt on tumblr, though I accidentally left out a couple of key details, sorry Anon!

The werewolf collapses on his stoop, purple streaks in its skin, blood oozing from its mouth, and Stiles looks both sides of the street before he drags it into the front room. 

It’s probably a trap. Blueberry juice, chocolate sauce and corn syrup. But the wolf’s a hell of an actor. It wheezes with a pained, cracked rasp, eyes scrunched shut. Its eyes flicker open and it gazes at him for a second, brown irises clouded over. The ache Stiles feels at witnessing it has his stomach clenching and he zipties its legs and arms to the balustrade of his staircase, goes into his well-hidden stash of wolfsbane, has to haul around three trunks in his attic to get to his long-forgotten supply. 

When he comes back to the wolf it’s no longer conscious and Stiles can examine it more closely. It’s young. His age, maybe younger. It’s handsome, if you can find monsters handsome. The blood is definitely real, pooling out of its mouth in molasses slow burbles that make Stiles feel weirdly hungry. 

Better to put it out of its misery. 

Stiles prepares the wolfsbane on his range, remembering rudimentary chemistry lessons with McGuire. He recites the words McGuire taught him phonetically, even though he can’t remember exactly what they mean. He goes back into his front room and considers how to administer it with the least amount of mess.

*

Scott wakes up with sore arms and legs, groggy. He’s tied down, which he guesses is to be expected. He’s surprised he’s waking at all, to be honest. More than half of him was convinced he was signing his own death warrant choosing to throw himself at an ex-hunter’s mercy, but that small, fighting spirit in him told him to take the risk. 

He opens his eyes, cringing when his eyelashes feel crusted shut. He blinks a few times and the room comes clearer into view, alongside the hunter who’s sitting cross-legged three meters away, staring at him. 

“Thank you,” Scott says, husky-voiced. 

He’s assessing his body and it’s at a good 27 % strength, which is a hell of a lot better than the 3 % he was feeling as he crawled here.

The ex-hunter, Stilinski, Scott knows his name from Mason’s meticulous research, raises an eyebrow. “You think being polite will stop me from shooting you?”

“I think if you wanted me dead you’d’ve let the aconite finish me off.”

“I can shoot to maim rather than kill,” Stilinski says, narrowing his eyes. 

“What a waste of a good bullet,” Scott counters.

Stilinski stretches a leg out, nudges a bottle of water over with his foot. He could’ve rolled it, limited the suggestion of contact between them, but Scott can tell, he’s giving him a test. Scott takes the water bottle, unscrews the cap, takes three long glugs. He doesn’t even glance at Stilinski’s foot. 

He _could_ reach out, dig his claws in, turn Stiles or kill him if his body rejects the change. Conceivably, that is a pathway that has potential. He knows he’s faster than Stilinski’s probably assuming. But Scott would rather die than treat someone the way he was treated by Peter. 

“What are you known as?” Stilinski asks. 

Not, _‘what’s your name’_ , like a real person would ask. Man, hunting fucks people up. Stilinski is young, intelligent if his SAT scores are to be believed, good-looking in a spiky kind of way. But his default is to threaten and dehumanize, even though he knows nothing about Scott’s past, his personality. 

At least he saved Scott’s life. There’s that. He’s not irredeemable. 

“My name’s Scott,” Scott says, because if you don’t offer humanity to these types, you don’t get humanity. “Scott McCall.”

*

Stiles spends the day watching the werewolf – Scott – with sick fascination. He’s personable. Polite. Pretty. He drinks Stiles’ water, eats his ready-made-TV-dinner stew, only asks to be let out of his bonds to use the restroom, and quietly offers his wrists up for Stiles to re-tie him after he’s washed his hands. 

Stiles doesn’t trust him for a second. 

“Why did you come here?”

“When you first moved into Beacon Hills, my… friends and I were warned about you.” _Pack. He was going to say pack._ “Did some background research, learned you used to be a hunter. I was attacked two days ago by hunters from out of state. I couldn’t lead them back to my friends so when I couldn’t struggle through the pain anymore I came here, hoping you’d have the antidote. Praying you’d use it.”

“You pray?”

“Doesn’t everyone, when they’re at death’s door?” 

“What made you think I’d help a creature like you?”

“The reason you’re an ex-hunter,” Scott says, simply, like he’s reciting a shopping list, or ordering a coffee. Like what he’s said is completely insignificant. 

“Oh really? Those rumors, huh? Unsubstantiated. Uncorroborated.”

“Like I said, there was a lot of hoping and praying going on. And, hey, you haven’t killed me yet.”

“Maybe I wanna prolong your suspense, indulge in some good ol’fashioned torture?”

“Do you?” Scott asks.

“What?”

“Do you want to torture me?”

He’s looking at Stiles like he’s seeing _through_ him. It’s unsettling, mostly because it’s not a creepy, malicious stare, but quietly confident and analytical. Scott appears to have him all figured out. And Stiles, who has spent the better part of two hours googling Scott, who used his dad’s password to access the local police database, and still found nothing to suggest that Scott is anything but a decent, upstanding citizen, even if he _is_ a citizen of the night, thinks he’s on the road to knowing about him too. 

“No.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, wonders at his insanity, and cuts the zipties. He tosses Scott his cell phone. “Call your… friends. Meet them in a public location. Don’t tell them about me.”

“Thank you,” Scott says, sincere. “I won’t forget this.”

*

Scott has never been more glad that his faith in the basic goodness of people exists than he is the week he meets Mieczysław Stilinski. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll have a semi-permanent tail for a good month or two, but considering he still has all of his limbs and his pack is safe, he’s willing to put up with those consequences. 

After he gets his dad to help him run the out-of-towners out of Beacon Hills for the next foreseeable future, he goes to visit Chris and Allison as they've gotten back from Paris, and ask for their advice should something similar happen again. He, Liam and Mason devise a plan for next time, because even though he’s optimistic, Scott’s also a pragmatist. He spends the next week ensuring he builds his strength up; sleeping when he can, eating properly, not doing too much strenuous exercise. He takes a few days off work, securing a medical certificate from one of his mom’s friends.

Sure enough, he’s grocery shopping when he senses Stilinski two aisles over. He shakes his head, smiles to himself, and continues like nothing happened. Two days later, Stilinski’s shadowing him as he picks up take-out from his local Thai place. Two weeks after that, Stilinski’s behind him on his favorite running trail, and judging by his wheezing, he is not into that form of physical labor. 

Scott runs off into the trees, doubles back. Can’t help but giggle when he meets Stilinski red-faced, huffing and puffing, leaning against a Sequoia with his hands on his knees. 

“Having an enjoyable day?” Scott asks, smile widening when Stilinski glares up at him. 

“Are _you_?” Stilinski asks. “How do you put yourself through this every three days? My fucking sneakers are falling apart. You don’t need to do this shit, you have super strength.”

“It makes me feel good, keeps me connected with the earth, calms me down. I do it more for my mental health rather than the physical.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Shoulda cut my legs off when you had the chance. Come on. Walk with me and I’ll buy you a coffee.”

*

It’s after four public meet-ups; two coffees, two diner visits, that Stiles tells Scott his preferred name. He can only sit through a couple of mangled attempts at Mieczysław before he tries to stick pencils in his ears. 

“Stiles,” Scott says, with a soft smile, and Stiles’ fingers involuntarily spasm. 

He’s watched Scott, now, for over two months, and he knows he means no one any harm. Scott’s a werewolf, but he’s not… he isn’t _anything_ like Stiles was taught a werewolf is. He’s fully in control of his emotions, even during the full moon. 

Stiles watched him transform a week ago and it scared him rigid to see Scott grow hair, develop elongated fangs, crouch down until he had a hunched back. But rather than going off and ravaging animals small and large alike, Scott ran around a lot like a _puppy_ stomping through piles of leaves for less than an hour, and then became fully human again. 

“Will you tell me more?” Stiles asks. He waves his hand around in a vague gesture to mean ‘about being a werewolf’. Scott clearly gets it. 

“Yeah, but not here. Come to mine for dinner on Friday. I’ll invite Liam and Mason too. We can do a video call with Kira.”

“They’re… your friends?” Stiles asks, even though the question’s redundant, because he knows they’re members of Scott’s pack. 

He honestly doesn’t understand how Scott is trusting him with this. He could easily come fully armed and equipped to take them all out. He could send for reinforcements. He could probably even smoke-bomb Scott’s house with concentrated wolfsbane without pulling a single trigger, without launching a single crossbow bolt, if the only thing stopping him from killing Scott before was squeamishness. 

“They are. I think they’ll like you. Oh, I could invite Chris and Allison too.”

“ _Argent_?” Stiles splutters, almost knocking over his milkshake.

“Oh, you weren’t following me when I asked for their help? Yeah. Allison’s my ex,” Scott says like he thought this was common knowledge. 

Stiles flashes back to a yearbook photo he saw with Scott and a beautiful young woman who looked vaguely familiar. 

“Why didn’t you go to them when you were wounded?” Stiles asks. 

“They were in Paris at the time.”

“Convenient.”

“Not for me.” Scott sighs, tilts his head to the side and gazes at Stiles. “Why would I be trying to trick you? There’s any number of things I could do to gain the upper hand in this situation. If I were the monster you want to believe I am, we wouldn’t be sitting here. One or both of us would be dead. You were my only hope and I clung onto it.”

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Stiles recites dutifully.

“Er, what?”

“ _Star Wars_.”

Scott frowns at him, and once again, if he’s acting, he should win every award. “You’re not making any sense.”

“You made a _Star Wars_ reference. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

“Oh. I haven’t seen that movie yet,” Scott says, blasé. Not apologetic so much as pitying Stiles. How is that even possible?

“It’s a series of movies! I take it all back, you’re clearly a monstrosity.”

“I hate to break it to you, Stiles, but you’ve never outwardly declared I’m not.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with himself when he realizes the truth of that statement. He’s equally at a loss to understand why this revelation comes with a deep sense of shame.

*

It takes the rest of his pack a lot longer to trust Stiles than it takes Scott, but he assumes it’s a good thing their protective streaks are miles wide. After their first dinner together, all of them crowded around Scott’s dining room table, Stiles gazing at everyone wide-eyed and purse-lipped, they arrange more meet-ups. Sometimes with the wider pack, more often without. 

He’s noticed a shift in how Stiles asks questions. When he first started, he was impersonal, clinical, asking for facts and nothing more. It was an interrogation. It was as if his curiosity could only be sated by bare, cold, practical knowledge. Now, Stiles will say something like, “That must’ve hurt,” or “Does it keep you up at night?” and it’s a conversation. He’s still inquisitive, but he seems to care, now, about more than the answers. 

It’s been long enough that Scott thinks he can broach the subject he’s been wondering about. He’ll try, at least.

It’s the first time he’s been back to Stiles’ house. He can’t help but gaze at the balustrade where he first came to as he steps inside the threshold. But there’s no sign of the blood that must have stained the hardwood floor. He keenly remembers the false surety he had that Stiles wouldn’t hurt him. He thinks he must have suffered a truly remarkable amount of blood loss.

“I have them set up in the kitchen,” Stiles says, touching Scott’s elbow and directing him through a nearby doorway. 

Stiles is showing Scott his assortment of “druidic eleven herbs and spices”, as the Argents don’t know much about the arcane use of belladonna and foxglove and barely understand the different strains of wolfsbane. Stiles stated a few days ago that this was the one area of hunting he got into in a big way, and he’s happy to talk through symptoms and cures, in case rogue hunters come into town again. 

“I really appreciate this,” Scott says, glancing over the table. 

“You’re always doing that,” Stiles says. “Thanking me for doing the bare minimum.”

“You could be doing nothing,” Scott retorts. He shrugs. He doesn’t know how to tell Stiles that originally it was a tactic, even if it was also sincere. Doesn’t know how to say that he feels intense gratitude that his suicidal risk paid off. 

Stiles successfully distracts them both from the awkward moment by beginning to tell Scott everything he knows.

“You’re like a library of information. I can’t imagine giving that up so easily,” Scott says, when they’re settled in Stiles’ living room with grilled cheeses and bowls of tomato soup. “Will you – is it okay for you to tell me about why you were cast out?” 

Stiles looks at the ground. “You know the story. You’ve always known the story. You told me it’s why you came to me. Why you trusted me, even though you didn’t know me.”

“I want to hear it from your perspective.”

“The crew I ran with …” Stiles starts, swallows thickly. Takes a moment. “They captured a boy. No more than six. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. Like you. They told me he was a rabid monster, deserved to be put down. They said it was my initiation rite, the way for me to prove that I was loyal, that I was strong, that I was brave. I was supposed to slit his throat. And I knew he was a werewolf, they tasered him so I could see him shift. But the more I looked, all I saw was a terrified little boy. I didn’t see the bravery or the strength in cutting his life short. So I helped him escape.”

“You did the right thing.”

“His mother murdered all six of my team mates,” Stiles says harshly. “There was blood everywhere. My boss rubbed my nose in it, literally.”

“I don’t agree with that, but, can’t you understand why she did it? My mom’s human and I’m fairly sure she’d’ve done the same thing to the hunters who attacked me, if she’d known about it.”

Stiles lifts a shoulder. Places his plate and bowl down on the ground. “I’d like you to leave now.”

“All right,” Scott says. He’s worried he’s pushed Stiles too far. 

He doesn’t touch Stiles as he goes to the front door, but he wants to. He wants to lay a comforting hand on his arm. Wants to reassure him that he isn’t alone in the world, that he didn’t betray anyone worthy when he saved that child’s life. “I hope I’ll see you around.”

*

Stiles keeps his distance for a month after telling Scott his story, but the truth is that he misses him. He misses his kind, considered manner. He misses his quiet wisdom. He misses the way he bounces on the balls of his feet when he’s excited, and the smile he gives when he says something funny, and the belief he has in Stiles. Stiles doesn’t know when he started to crave Scott’s approval, but he did, and to know he has it helps settle the part of him that still harbors deep guilt for what happened to the hunters he used to work with. 

The fact of the matter is, they weren’t good people. It’s terrible that they died, but their deaths were the consequences to their terrible deeds. 

Scott is a good person. Stiles misses the potential of a friendship between them, or even something different, something he hasn’t had in way too long. 

“Thank you,” Stiles says to Scott when he opens his door. 

Scott gazes at him, perplexed. “What for?”

“For allowing me time to sort my mind out. For listening to me. For trusting me.”

“You’re welcome,” Scott replies, smile lighting his face. He steps back. “You wanna come in? I was in the middle of watching _Rogue One_.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, I’ve been making my way through. I like them. They’re okay.”

“Please tell me you’re undercutting for comedic effect. The use of the word ‘okay’ to describe these movies is like a claw through my Goddamned heart.”

Scott’s grin widens and he offers Stiles a seat and puts a bowl of popcorn in his lap. 

*

Maybe he just has a thing for hunters, Scott muses as he tilts his head back for Stiles to press a line of kisses over his clavicles and up the tender skin of his neck. He wouldn’t like to say he’s a masochist, but maybe he’s got underlying proclivities craving loss-of-control. But really he knows he just falls for people who are noble, even if they’ve been misguided in the past. Possibly _because_ they have, because they’ve proven they can grow and change for the better.

Stiles kisses him tender and sweet, like he’s honoring Scott every time his lips press against his skin. He’s careful with his touches and his fingertips spark Scott’s nerves alight as they brush against his arm, his belly. Scott strokes his fingers against his scalp, widens the vee of his legs and shuffles deeper into the couch. He pushes Stiles’ head back and looks him in the eye. 

“Admit it, you spent the entire time you were following me checking out my ass.”

“There’s nothing to admit. Isn’t that obvious? I survived late-night grocery shopping for you. I contended with your pack giving me the stink-eye. I _jogged_ for you and this glorious ass.”

“When did you believe I wouldn’t hurt anyone?”

“When you took the water bottle without slashing my leg in two.”

“Then why did you follow me?”

Stiles winds his hands around Scott and grasps hold of his buttcheeks, gives a gentle squeeze. “We’ve established why.”

“Really, Stiles? Why?”

“Because it’s hard to shake decade-long habits and even though I believed you, I couldn’t trust you. Not then. I do now.”

“I trust you too,” Scott says. “How would you like to check out my ass up-close and personal?”

“Wild thing,” Stiles jokes, sliding his fingers under Scott’s waistband.

“Sometimes,” Scott confesses, helping Stiles out by lifting his hips.

This isn’t how he ever would have expected meeting Stiles to go, but he doesn’t regret it. Perhaps he was foolish, placing his life in Stiles’ hands, but Stiles has proven to want to treat him like he’s precious, so for once his recklessness has paid off.


End file.
